


An Education

by venagrey



Series: Synesthesia [3]
Category: Uta no Prince-sama
Genre: Drama, Eiichi and Reiji Bromance 2k20, Eiichi is a service top, Everything is consensual, F/M, Mentalist Eiichi, Mild S&M themes, Mild ballroom dance themes, No one can convince me otherwise, Psychological Drama, Record company dynamics, Sommelier Eiichi, Trust games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26633596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venagrey/pseuds/venagrey
Summary: There were three rules: one, tell no one about this. Two, no kissing. “And the third?”“I can do whatever I want.”Or, Haruka seeks help from the only person she can think of. Synesthesia-verse, but works as a standalone.
Relationships: Nanami Haruka/Ootori Eiichi
Series: Synesthesia [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1829167
Comments: 10
Kudos: 10





	1. Rigor samsa

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second of three prequels to Synesthesia. As before, this story can be read either alongside or independently of Synesthesia and Blue Monday, though I am of course of the opinion that reading them together improves the experience of both. I recommend reading Synesthesia first, then the prequels in order. 
> 
> This story is somewhat darker than its companions. But with Eiichi in the driver’s seat, that’s not a surprise. Mind the tags, though.
> 
> Four chapters. One per week. Onward~

**Rigor samsa**

_n._ a kind of psychological exoskeleton that can protect you from pain and contain your anxieties, but always ends up cracking under pressure or hollowed out by time—and will keep growing back again and again, until you develop a more sophisticated emotional structure, held up by a strong and flexible spine, built less like a fortress than a cluster of treehouses.

[ the dictionary of obscure sorrows ]

× × × × ×

(one)

× × × × ×

In the moments before she entered the room, there was always a clicking sound in the hallway. If anyone else noticed, they never said anything. There might be pauses, glimpses toward the door, but most of the time, it was like clockwork. Most people weren’t aware of a clock unless they needed it.

That particular day, she’d elected for quieter shoes, as evidenced by the silence that befell the room when she opened the door. She closed it behind her without looking at any of the room’s occupants. Instead, she made her way to the corner of the conference table closest to the keyboard. Behind it, the midday sun was sharp and cold through 30th-floor windows. With no balconies beneath them, if he stood close enough, it felt like he was standing on the head of a needle.

She turned to them, opening her folio of notes. Inside were eight identical sets of music—he watched as she split the stack and passed half in each direction. She reserved one for herself, waiting until each of them had it in front of them before she continued. 

“Nice of you to join us.”

She looked up at him. His chin rested over one hand, the look on his face intentionally indiscernible. She looked at the clock across from her, smiled, and bowed slightly. 

“I’m sorry. I was kept late in another meeting.” He saw her pause just slightly before continuing, and he glanced around the room. She pressed on. “This is the same song we discussed last time, but I’ve re-arranged it based on your requests.”

“Would you mind playing it?” His brother asked in a kind voice. He didn’t seem to notice what she had done. She looked over at Eiji, who appeared to be backtracking. “—I mean, it’s easier to hear the changes than to see them, I think.”

Haruka smiled, nodding. “Of course. And please, everyone, tell me if you approve or disapprove.”

He watched her make her way to the keyboard, setting the revision on the stand. Without adjusting the settings at all, she began to play.

He’d been over the piece enough times that he didn’t need to follow along while she played. The changes were obvious enough—a longer build into the first verse, a slight change in tempo, more space, both above and below the melody, for the effects and harmonies they’d discussed. It was, as always, exceptionally well-done. She had not only incorporated their requests, she’d done better than they’d come up with on their own.

Instead, he watched her. The movement of her hands over the keys when she played tended to reflect the mood of the piece: bright and lively for pop anthems, slow, almost sensual for ballads. More than once, he’d thought of those hands on his bare skin. 

Now, they curled in perfect arcs over the keys. Pristine. Pure. Clean. She had obviously been trained, and that was what he saw—the pirouette of a prima ballerina, perfect as though around an axis. 

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she read the piece, not missing even a single note as she turned the page over and continued. When she was finished, she turned to them. Her back was perfectly straight, her hands neatly folded in her lap.

“Is that any better?”

Her voice was expectant but tired. He respected her effort at hiding it. 

After a beat, Van turned to him. There was a question in his eyes. Eiichi nodded.

“Ha-chan,” His bandmate began, waiting until she looked at him. He saw her do so. “Is somethin’ bothering you? ‘Ya don’t seem like yourself.”

She blushed, tensing. After a moment, she smiled. “It’s nothing to worry about. It isn’t about any of you.”

Van crossed his arms. “It is, if it keeps you from doin’ your best.” At this, she visibly stiffened, raising a hand partway to her lips. “Whatever it is, you can talk to me if you have a problem. I won’ bite.”

Yamato laughed outright. They were sitting next to each other, across from him, and the younger Hyuuga threw an arm over Van’s shoulders.

“Don’t listen to him. Of _course_ he’ll bite.”

“Get your own girl, Yaa-kun—”

And that was that. All attention lost, she blushed, turning away from the emerging scuffle across the room, and looked at him. 

“Are there any more changes you’d like me to make?”

Her eyes were very wide. She was quite ready to leave, but she would never admit it. After a moment, he shook his head.

“No. Leave it like this. Any other changes we make won’t affect the score.”

—“Grow _up,_ will you?”

Nagi, sitting in his chair like a disapproving executive. At a corner to Van, he was closest to them, besides his brother, who was on Yamato’s other side. 

“That’s funny, coming from you—” 

He saw Eiji glance at him before standing, taking the music he’d been given. He’d heard what he said to Haruka. Good. “I think we’re done for today, then,” he said. “Let’s go work on this. While the music is still fresh in our minds.”

“Good thinking,” Nagi answered. 

“We should go to the practice room. Do the choreography at the same time. Thank you, Nanami-san.”

Haruka looked over her shoulder, smiling. “I’m glad it fits this time.”

Eiji smiled in return, then walked out. There were chairs pushed in, belongings collected. He glanced up as Kira held the door for the others. Yamato and Van were the last out—the latter hesitated in the doorway, holding it open while Kira joined the others.

“You comin’?”

“I’ll be right there.”

It was a dismissal. Van knew it, and shot him a look. 

“Don’ be too long.”

The door fell closed. Haruka was gathering her things when he stood up, pushed the chair in, and walked around the corner of the table, leaning against it. When she felt his proximity, she stopped. 

“I’m calling your bluff,” he said.

“Huh—Ootori-kun—”

“One, you were late, which is quite rare for you. Two, you lied about why. Three,” he looked at her, smirking at her alarm as he ticked off on his fingers, “—you played robotically. Technically perfect, but no _life._ It may as well have been a _recital._ ” 

He practically spat the word. She wasn’t looking at him. Instead, she was folded into herself, the files of music in her hand now between them like a shield. “Oh,” she said. With obvious effort, she met his eyes, bowing a little. “I’m very sorry that my playing was poor today—”

 _“—Four,”_ he continued, interrupting her, taking a step closer and looking down at her over crossed arms. She took half a step back. “As soon as this conversation is over, you will leave this agency, return to yours, and immediately begin drowning yourself in work.” He paused, waiting until she looked at him again. “Am I wrong?”

She was holding herself around the folio of music. She looked away, facing the window, and he saw an early flash of tears in her eyes.

After a long pause, she shook her head. He smirked.

“Of course not. This is exactly how I would expect you to respond to the person you love leaving you.”

She whirled around, holding a hand to a mouth now partially open in shock. A couple of tears escaped. “How could you—”

“I can see it on your face. You fear being left alone.” His expression turned serious. He stepped back, then past her on his way to the door his bandmates had left through. “It’s as Kiryuin said. We want your best. Come back when this is behind you. If you can manage that before we begin working on the next song, then no one else will know.”

× × × × ×

(two)

× × × × ×

Several days later, the seven of them were in the same room, once again taken by surprise at the sound of the door opening and closing. With her distinct lack of fanfare, Haruka made her way to her usual place. But after half a minute or so passed in which she didn’t say anything, just kept searching through her files for something none of them could be certain of, conversations began to pick up around the room again. Nagi and Van were watching her out of the corners of their eyes. Eiichi stood and made his way over to her.

“Is it done?”

The question was cryptic to everyone but her. Between pages she was turning over and scanning through, she looked up at him.

“Is something like this ever done?” She asked, just as cryptic, superbly not answering him. He couldn’t stop the grin that came to his face, and he didn’t try. 

“I suppose not. But if you’re here, then something will happen.” 

He went to sit down again. The look Nagi was giving him was no longer partial. But Eiichi kept his eyes trained forward, and eventually, Nagi let it go.

But there was nothing to worry about. Not now, anyway. The new piece was very good—mid-tempo, intense, the fire in it palpable even to him. He was impressed, even though it still needed work. In glancing around the room, he could see he was nearly the only one to think so. The only other was Nagi, who was skeptical of everything.

But all the same, there was a catch. He knew it, and she knew it. He would have bet on it. Sure enough, as they were preparing to leave for the day, she stopped him on his way out.

“Ootori-kun.”

Her voice was very soft. “Eiichi,” he answered.

“Hm—?”

“Don’t call me Ootori. There are two of us. If you’re going to ask a favor of me, call me Eiichi.”

Her head shot up. _Right again_ , he thought—this time, though, she didn’t say anything, and the look of surprise faded off her face with her exhale. He was about to prompt her when she spoke again.

“I’ve thought about what you said last time.” She paused, then continued. “You’re right.”

“About what you fear?”

She blushed. “Yes. That. But also, what I feel right now—it’s keeping me from doing my best.”

He stepped further back into the room. _Good._ “I’m glad you understand that.” 

“—Which is why I want to ask for your help.”

He regarded her. She still wasn’t looking at him, and her blush was almost as vibrant as her hair.

“Why are you coming to me?” When her brows crossed in confusion, he elaborated. “If the problem is with a specific person, work it out with them.”

“I can’t,” she said. Her voice was tiny.

“Why not?” He challenged. “What will happen?”

She turned away, facing halfway to the window. In the silence that followed, he heard her take several slow, measured breaths.

“Eiichi-kun.” Her voice was level, controlled. “Please understand that this is a problem I cannot resolve with this person. If I were to attempt to, this person would face serious consequences.”

Something hot shot through him. 

“Then I’m sorry to hear that,” he answered, giving nothing away. She looked at him again, and the defensiveness in her stance ebbed somewhat. He took several steps toward her. “What would I be able to do in this situation?”

“What you did for Ittoki-kun.” She was blushing furiously, but she continued. “There is something about me that isn’t satisfying.”

For several moments, the room was silent. Haruka didn’t move—didn’t look away as he regarded her, assessing every side of what she had just said. He closed the distance between them. She watched him, tension thick through every cell of her body, until he stopped directly in front of her. His hands were on the table behind him, his body between hers and the door.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” he said. “I want you to say it clearly.”

When she didn’t answer for about half a minute, he stepped forward, about to walk out. But then she said, so quietly he almost missed it: “Teach me how to be desirable to men.”

The same feeling as before lanced through him, mixed with something else. She had absolutely _no_ idea—for a moment, he nearly laughed, the thought of the situation she believed she found herself in so stunningly, unbelievably wrong. The feeling quickly passed as he realized that she was being sincere. 

After a moment, she continued.

“I’m asking you to help me find what it is. I never want to be left alone again.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Just looked at her, mentally questioning, again, whether she was serious. _Never_ before had he seen a person so thoroughly ignorant to their own reality—if she knew how many people were in love with her, she never would be. 

He opened the file of music she’d given him, tearing a strip off one of the blank corners, and wrote out his address. He handed it to her, and she took it.

“Come here tomorrow at nine.”

“A.m.?”

He laughed, then looked at her, all humor utterly gone. “No. What you’re asking of me—be prepared not to get anything else done that day.”

There was fear in the look she gave him. But she nodded. 

Then, she gathered her things and left.

× × × × ×

(three)

× × × × ×

When she knocked on his door the next day, it was almost 9:30. He opened the door.

“You’re late,” he said.

“I’m sorry. I…get lost sometimes.”

“Not having second thoughts?”

She looked at him. The look was many things: fear, apprehension, an apology.

He sighed, leaning against the open door. “Well, you’re here. Come in.”

She did. She entered about four feet, enough that the door could fall closed behind her. Then she stopped, her hands clasped in front of her, the look of apprehension not dulled in the slightest.

“Get undressed,” he said.

“Huh—?”

He looked at her. “I’m sorry, was that not what you meant when you asked for my help?”

She blushed, raising a hand to her lip. That was evidently a habit—a cute one, not that he would admit so. “No, it is,” she said. He arced a brow. “What I meant earlier. I’m just…very nervous. And self-conscious.”

“That’s part of the problem, then, isn’t it?”

“I…suppose so.” She took a breath, bit her lip. “Can you leave the room?”

He laughed once. “I will look away, but I won’t close my eyes.”

She nodded. He turned, then, and went into the kitchen, opening a bottle of wine.

The kitchen was connected to the entryway, and over the counter, through the mirror created by the darkened windows, he watched her hesitate for several long moments before doing as he asked. It was a warm night, still summer, and under her thin sweater, her sleeveless dress cut deeply down her back. He could almost see the full outline of her shoulderblades. He faced away from her, still watching in the window. She reached up behind her and pulled the zipper down, letting it slip down her shoulders and pool at her feet. She stepped out of it, but made no move to undress further. 

He felt himself harden a bit. He looked down at the counter, at the dark red reflected through the stem of his wineglass. When it passed, he poured a second, made his way into the living room, and handed it to her. She accepted it but didn’t drink.

“What are you feeling right now?”

She took a breath, assessing. “Nervous. Exposed.”

“Good. By doing as I said, you’ve given me a lot of power over you.”

The look on her face turned more to fear than anything else. She crossed an arm over herself. He took a drink, allowing it to rest on his tongue—it was a very good Cabernet, and had been a gift from his father.

“I have three rules to this. First, most obviously, tell no one about this.” She nodded. “Second, no kissing.” He watched her as her brows crossed in confusion. “If I’m going to be your teacher, then we cannot become emotionally involved.”

Again, she nodded. She raised the glass to her lips, pressing it lightly to them, her nostrils flaring just slightly as she took in the sharp smell.

His control wavered. _And she thinks she isn’t desirable—?_ She took a drink, and her eyes closed, before she followed it with another.

“And the third rule?” She asked quietly, her eyes still closed. 

He’d come up behind her. He slid an arm around her stomach, pressing her firmly into him, still holding his glass. In the window, he saw her eyes shoot open. 

He leaned into her ear. He felt the heat of his own breath against her cheek.

“I can do whatever I want.”

She went rigid. The glass tipped dangerously. He tightened his hold on her enough that she let out a huff of air, and he smirked against her, biting gently on her earlobe.

She gasped. That was a nice sound.

“The first lesson, Nanami Haruka, is to never let a man do whatever he wants.” She tried to push away, but his hold on her was pinning her arm against her side. “I have thoroughly disarmed you. Unless you were to use the glass as a weapon, which you won’t, I could have my way with you and you would not be able to stop me.”

He stepped away. She staggered forward, catching the glass with both hands before it fell. She held it to her chest—when she turned, he saw that a small amount had escaped the side and was trailing down her chest toward her sternum, almost like blood. He set his glass down on the counter and walked into the kitchen, wetting a towel and bringing it to her. When she didn’t take it, he took her glass and wiped off her skin.

She watched him, her eyes wide and unmoving. He could almost see the pounding of her heart.

“Remember what you feel now,” he said, softly. “Never allow yourself to be this vulnerable.” 

Once again, he stepped away. In the window, he could see her raise a hand to the center of her chest, touching her damp skin. _What is that name Jinguji calls her? Little lamb?_

He looked back over his shoulder. She was facing away. After several long moments, she picked up her clothes and got dressed.

 _Fitting,_ he thought.


	2. Gnossiene

**Gnossiene**

_n._ a moment of awareness that someone you’ve known for years still has a private and mysterious inner life, and somewhere in the hallways of their personality is a door locked from the inside, a stairway leading to a wing of the house that you’ve never fully explored—an unfinished attic that will remain maddeningly unknowable to you, because ultimately neither of you has a map, or a master key, or any way of knowing exactly where you stand.

[ the dictionary of obscure sorrows ]

× × × × ×

(four)

× × × × ×

The next time she came over, she was only a few minutes late. He opened the door. She walked in, without hesitating, and immediately began undressing.

For a moment, he was tempted to let her continue. It wasn’t just her music that every man in Shining Agency was attracted to, after all—but as she was reaching for the hem of her shirt, he stopped her with a hand on her wrist, and she looked up at him.

“I didn’t say you had to do that.”

She let out a breath. When something like relief came over her face, he realized she’d been steeling herself.

“What should I do, then?”

He looked at her with a sideways grin. “Would you care for a drink?”

She regarded him for a moment, then nodded. He moved past her. There was a remote on the table along the wall, and he took it with him, setting it on the counter while he retrieved the white he’d opened the day before from the fridge, pouring each of them a glass. There was a slight hesitation before she took hers, but only a moment. She drank, slowly. Her eyes closed.

“You have very good taste,” she said quietly.

He hummed a laugh and pointed the remote at the wall. Soft, Latin jazz spilled into the room from all around. She opened her eyes.

“Do I.”

She looked at him. Then, something strange happened. She was still looking at him, but it was as though _through_ him—her eyes seemed almost to cloud over, like she was seeing something he couldn’t.

It sent a chill through him. He took a long drink, but the cold made it worse. He set his glass down again.

“Dance with me,” he said.

“Hm—?” Her eyes focused again, and she turned to where he was now standing. “I don’t know how—”

He reached a hand out for her glass. She took a long drink, longer than his, and handed it to him.

“Then follow me.”

This time, when he extended his hand, she hesitated, then placed hers in his own. It was startlingly cold. He pulled her forward, and she let him, until she was flush against his front. He slid a hand around her back, holding her to him.

She blushed. “Isn’t this too close—?”

As an answer, he began to move. She followed awkwardly. 

“Are you intimidated?”

She looked up at him, a bit surprised. “No.”

He shifted his hand on her back, sliding up to the base of her shoulderblades. “Good. Dancing is an exercise in trust,” he said. Her eyes narrowed in confusion. 

“I don’t follow.”

He smirked. “Yes, you do. That’s the point.”

“Hm— _oh_ ,” she said, suddenly understanding. She tried to angle into him, apparently trying to predict the movement, and he adjusted her back.

“Do you trust me?”

He led her through a pass. She looked up at him, slightly panicked. “I—”

“Do you,” he pulled her closer. “—trust me.” 

“Yes,” she said, uncertain.

“Then _relax_ ,” he answered in her ear. “You’re thinking too much. Let me lead you.” She nodded against his chest. “Close your eyes.”

She did. He glanced down at her—slowly, her look of concentration was being replaced by something else. He signaled her with a squeeze of her hand before he led her into another pass—still awkward, but less so. When she stepped back into him, her legs moved with his rather than against him. He felt her breathing even out.

“That’s it,” he said.

As they moved, he watched her. Her unfamiliarity with the dance was evident in every step—but he’d encountered that before, anticipating it as best he could. When she moved in a different direction, he corrected her with a squeeze or a push, until soon enough, she began to get it. She followed him, trusting—it was thrilling in a way he did not expect. So when his next words left his lips, he wasn’t entirely surprised.

“Tell me about you,” he said, watching her. She looked up at him, faltering for a moment before she remembered to relax into his guidance. “Your past. What made you who you are?”

Her brows crossed. “You want to know about my past?”

“That’s what I asked, isn’t it?”

She looked down, blushing when she noticed their proximity. “I spent most of my childhood in the country,” she said. “With my grandmother. I was very sickly as a child, and it helped me to be away from the city.”

That surprised him. Despite her timid nature, she had a strength underneath that, something he’d come to consider an essential part of her skill as a composer. But it made sense, in a way—perhaps the two were connected. “Are you still?”

“No,” she answered. Then, she blushed. “Well, not as much, I suppose. I…” she paused, long enough that he wondered if she would continue to speak. When he was about to press her, she added: “I still have fainting spells, sometimes. Not like it used to be—usually just when I’m under a lot of stress.”

She was blushing fiercely. This was, evidently, not something she discussed very often. In a way, it made him feel honored. “What constitutes a lot of stress?”

“I…don’t know. There isn’t a pattern, anymore.”

Reluctantly, he let the subject slide, tucking it in the back of his memory in case he needed it again. “Did she teach you to play?”

“Hm—?”

“Your grandmother.”

“Oh,” she smiled. “Yes. I learned everything I know from her. Or—well, almost everything.”

“Almost everything?”

Her smile grew. “Until Saotome Gakuen. I learned a lot there too, especially after…" 

She trailed off. “After STARISH?” He wagered. She nodded. He knew some about their origin story, enough to have figured out that Haruka was an integral part of it. They wouldn’t have been so possessive of her otherwise, not that he couldn’t understand how someone might become possessive of her anyway. “But your love of music began before then.”

Her smile turned sad. He badly wanted to probe why. But she was talking almost freely, now, and making her uncomfortable or embarrassed would halt that. “I wanted to compose for famous musicians,” she supplied. 

It was mostly true. That would have to be enough for now. He changed the subject. 

“If you wanted to compose for famous musicians, you should have come to us first.”

She laughed. Her whole face brightened. He found himself pulling her closer, fitting her into him. She had relaxed into the song, her movements evening out as she stopped thinking about them so much. She wasn’t a natural, but she was a pleasant partner, and a fast learner.

The song ended. In the space between the next song, she looked up at him. He closed his eyes as the next one began, feeling for the rhythm of it, and began to lead her again. It was a different beat—slower, but the steps were more complicated. On the first turn, she bumped into his hip.

“Sorry,” she muttered softly, blushing. He tightened his hold on her back.

“Don’t apologize,” he answered. “Second lesson. Show more confidence. Even when you’re learning something, or are unfamiliar with it.” He leaned into her ear again as he led her through a turn, following her into it and back out with a small pass. “A woman who is comfortable in her skin is incredibly attractive.”

Her blush deepened. He held her so that their hips and legs were pressed together again, and she had no choice but to follow his movements. When she faltered, he righted her.

“Relax,” he said again. “You’re so tense.”

She froze. Full stop. He narrowly avoided walking into her by angling past at the last moment. He looked at her—the look on her face was distant. A threat, a ghost, of tears, a long flicker—and then it was gone.

“What was that?”

She looked at him. She’d retreated into a place deep inside her—he knew that look.

“What was what?”

“Why did you stop?”

She looked away. “Just a memory. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

His voice had softened. He’d stepped closer to her again, taking hold of her around her back. He tipped her face up. 

“Something he said to you. Your first time.”

“How did you—”

“Never mind that.” He let her go. She was blushing deeply, and looked down at his chest. “Be present with me. Take what you’re feeling and let it move you.”

She nodded. He positioned her again, taking her hands, pausing a moment before stepping out at the start of a measure. She’d gone tense again, hesitant.

“Tell me what it is,” he said.

“It’s almost like you can read my mind,” she said. “How are you able to predict me so well?”

“I pay attention.” He led her into an easy spin, which she was able to follow. It was true: he had always paid attention, so he knew what to look for. That was even true when the person themselves didn’t know. He felt himself smirk. “Most people are very predictable.”

“Am I predictable?”

“No.”

It was true. In the overall amount of time he’d known her, the couple of incidents in which he’d anticipated her had been recent and brief. She glanced up at him, though, with what was just barely skepticism.

“I don’t know whether I believe you.”

“I have no incentive to lie.”

“Are you sure?” 

Her response had been immediate, with no hesitation on her part. Because of that, it fell heavily between them.

“What’s the real question behind this?”

An educated guess, on his part, but one that served to deflect the focus back onto her.

“Ah—mmh,” she began, biting her lip in lieu of raising a finger to it. It seemed to him like she was waging war with herself over what to say, or at least choosing between several very difficult choices.

“It’s like this, I think,” she eventually continued. “I came to you because I was stuck. Because of this fear of not being wanted. Of—”

She cut herself off. 

“Go on.”

She let out a long breath.

“Like I have to prove myself. To be desirable, so that no one will leave me. Which you noticed.”

“Yes,” he said. _You’re wrong,_ he wanted to say.

“If I am not predictable, then it would be impossible to know how I really feel. Unless you—”

_“Pay attention.”_

His voice was a low growl in her ear as he passed by her out of a spin, and he knew from her shudder that the double meaning of those words wasn’t lost on her. He drew her back even closer than she had been before, their bodies flush against each other. 

The steps of the dance required that they step away from one another as they exited. But she didn’t know that, so when he modified them and continued to hold her, she didn’t know better.

 _Pay attention_ , he thought again, unsure as to whether he was thinking it to himself or ordering her.

“I don’t know how.”

He looked at her. She still wasn’t looking at him. 

“Well then.”

A second’s panicked look was all she had time to give before he took her arms, flipped her around, and pushed her against the back of the couch. She hit with a small huff, feebly raising her arms halfway only to be met with the force of his hold. She jerked under him, flinching. Her face pinched. He narrowed his eyes.

“Eiichi-kun, what—”

Something surged through him at his name on her mouth. It would be so easy to kiss her—to take her, even. Trusting him was incredibly foolish.

“When you’re here, you’re mine.” His tone was dark. Something like possessiveness shot through him. He reached for it, took it, owned it. It could prove useful later. “There is no one else. Nowhere else. You are here, and you are mine. I want your feelings to be only for me.” He toyed with her hair. “Do you understand?”

She looked up, flinching at their proximity.

“What do you want from me?”

Small. Scared. She tensed in his grip, as though realizing for the first time what he could do to her if he wanted.

“Isn’t it about what _you_ want?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. Her voice trailed off. “I don’t know.”

He lifted her chin. 

“You know more than you think,” he answered. Almost a whisper. “Or we wouldn’t be here.”

The arm he’d freed lifted reflexively. He approached her lips, hovering just a few inches above them, levelling a look at her. She closed her eyes.

After a long moment, she said, very softly, “This isn’t like you. You’re trying to prove something.”

His grip slackened involuntarily. That was not what he’d expected to hear. He answered, giving nothing away: 

“How do you know if this isn’t how I am?”

She said nothing. For several long moments, she didn’t even move—her only motion was the shallow rise and fall of her breath, which their proximity meant he felt, warm, below his collarbone. The longer she stayed silent, the more aware of it he became. 

She would never have known it—and if she did, he doubted she would have done anything about it—but in that moment, he realized that _she_ had _him_ on the defensive. It was she who had the power in their situation. In that moment, rather than fear, or a desire to control, something else came over him: a desire, almost overpowering, to know her. Her thoughts, her feelings. He realized then that she never expressed them. And insofar as she did, they were derived from others—her desire was for service, for pleasing others. She was a mirror.

He let her go. As before, the tension seemed to leave her body. And then there was nothing more to say. Several more moments passed before she realized it. When she did, she opened her eyes and stepped away from the couch, then past him.

She had come here to study herself. But she wasn’t the only one: he would study her, until he knew her better than anyone. 

The strength of his resolution surprised him. He thought about taking her arm, pulling her back to him. 

As she left, she paused in front of the door. “Eiichi,” she said, turning back to him. Her use of his name, unadorned, sent a flash of heat through him. “I know this isn’t how you are because you let me go.”

And then, she turned back to the door and left.


	3. Anecdoche

**Anecdoche**

_n._ a conversation in which everyone is talking but nobody is listening, simply overlaying disconnected words like a game of Scrabble, with each player borrowing bits of other anecdotes as a way to increase their own score, until we all run out of things to say.

[ the dictionary of obscure sorrows ]

× × × × ×

(five)

× × × × ×

“I don’t think you know what you’re doing.”

Eiichi bit back a laugh as he swirled the dark liquid around his glass. It was a Bordeaux, a stiff one, with thin legs that slithered back down the sides, barely visible. It was his third glass of the evening and smelled faintly of rosemary.

He’d offered some to his guest, of course. The man had stubbornly refused, as he’d known he would. After all, Kotobuki Reiji knew that he kept a bottle of Irish whiskey in the cabinet by the stove. He’d been the one who put it there.

The man in question was seated at the bar, one leg propped up against the second of two stools, the drink he’d poured for himself over an hour ago still untouched beside him. He was running his finger around the brim of his hat the way that one might a wine glass.

“You’re taking a massive chance with this. One might even say, risking not just your career, but that of many you hold dear.” Reiji looked up, his smirk only showing in his eyes. “Unless I’ve misread you all these years, and you hold _no one_ dear?”

That was a challenge. On another night, he’d have met it. Today he deflected.

“How would _you_ know what I’m doing on a venture you’ve never tried before?”

Reiji’s finger stilled, and he looked up at Eiichi with a wry smile, like he knew something he didn’t. It was entirely possible he did—Reiji was one of the few people capable of keeping secrets from him. 

They were talking about an upcoming negotiation with his father. Raging Ootori, who was also the director of the agency his band was signed to, was holding HEAVENS back by insisting on their using only lyrics and choreography that his handpicked creative staff came up with. For his part, he knew they _both_ knew that he and his bandmates were perfectly capable of doing _both_ jobs themselves.

There weren’t many things in this world that caused him trepidation. His father was one of the few. Reiji knew that, but he would never grant his friend the satisfaction of admitting it.

So he shot Reiji a look that indicated exactly what he wanted him to _think_ he thought of that suggestion. 

The problem was, he was distracted. 

On paper, the official purpose of his meeting with Reiji at this hour was to assess a recent development within the media conglomerate Ascalon Holdings that was of interest to both Shining and Raging—specifically, the aggressive pursuit of talent by a young, unknown producer whom the wife of the president of Ascalon had recruited from Europe. Reiji knew the woman, and he knew Ascalon, and so both of them had been asked to assess. But that conversation had long since finished. 

“I know your mind is set, Captain.” Reiji shot back, smirking as he picked up his glass. Holding it to his lips, he winked as Eiichi rolled his eyes at the nickname. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get rid of me.”

He _was_ , in fact, trying to get rid of him. On most occasions, he didn’t mind the company. Few knew to look behind the clown exterior Reiji showed the world. But there was no substitute for experience, and Reiji was one of few others whose stay in the industry was comparable to his own. He was significantly sharper than most people realized. That particular evening, however, Eiichi’s forthcoming commitment meant he’d taken to standing and moving around the kitchen occasionally to mask the fact he had been glancing at the clock every ten minutes. 

"What reason have I given to suspect—”

There was a knock.

"Ah, there it is." The words came out in a lilt as Reiji stepped off the barstool. He did so slowly, giving Eiichi ample time to stop him if he so chose—which, of course, beyond the sound itself, would have been only further evidence against him. He was standing on the other side of the counter, and remained there, unrelenting, as Reiji checked his reaction and then turned to answer the door, something in his tone affecting all the while that he _was_ the innocent clown many believed him to be.

"And who might be calling so late—” Reiji cut himself off as he opened the door to Haruka’s wide-eyed expression, which he caught only from sideways. Reiji stepped aside enough to let her in. His tone changed _instantly_. “—Ah, kouhai-chan! What a happy coincidence. Are you delivering music?”

She was carrying a large purse—far larger than she usually brought. His mind reeled with the thought of why for a few seconds too long before it occurred to him that the wine had caught up with him more than he’d realized. Was she planning—

She was looking wildly at him, past Reiji, between them, like she was swallowing words. He saw her mouth open and close.

“Interesting that you’d be delivering it here rather than at the studio,” Reiji mused. Haruka turned to him, her back partially to Eiichi, who saw Reiji glance at him out of the corner of his eye. “I’m sure you were in the area, and this was more convenient.”

Haruka wheeled back around, now facing both of them. He looked between her and Reiji, assessing. 

“Um—”

Reiji put a hand on her back. The movement practically made their bodies touch. Eiichi’s fingers tightened around his wineglass. “If that’s all it is, then why don’t you let me drive you home? I was about to leave, and it’s not far out of the way.”

“Kotobuki-senpai—that isn’t—”

Eiichi set his glass down and stepped around the counter. Reiji smirked out of the side of his mouth that Haruka couldn’t see.

“We have a collaboration to work on.”

Reiji glanced at him. “So late?”

“It was the only time she was free.”

It was a statement, but it was also a warning. Perhaps even a threat. Reiji lowered his hand, but the look on his face turned into a full grin.

“That’s interesting,” he said. “Well, then, _my girl,_ don’t let me stop you.” He stepped around Haruka, retrieving his hat from the counter. For a second, Eiichi thought he would place it on her head—but then, as though on a whim, he swooped down and kissed her on the cheek. 

It took every bit of his self-control not to pull her away from him. When Reiji looked up at him again, something in his expression suggested he knew.

“Don’t think you can corrupt my kouhai-chan without my knowing it, _Captain,_ ” he said through a wink as he put on his hat. To her, he said, “Don’t stay out too late.”

And then he left. For several seconds after the door closed, neither of them said anything. Reiji’s departure seemed to suck something essential out of the air—when she wheeled around to face him, her face was bright red.

“Ootori-kun, I’m sorry, I—”

He closed the distance between them, taking one of her shoulders in each hand. “One,” he said, the quiet of his voice barely hiding steel beneath it. “I’ve told you to call me Eiichi. Two,” the look he gave her then made her shrink back a bit. “Stop apologizing. It isn’t a good look.”

He thought about letting her go, but didn’t. She was small between his hands. There was something very captivating to him about that.

“I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t violate the first rule,” she said, looking down. 

_The first rule?_

After a moment, he remembered. The terms he’d laid out the first night. How troublesome they seemed, now, with her lips less than a foot away from his, shining slightly with moisture from her tongue. This time, he did step away, returning to his former post on the other side of the counter. At the last moment, he picked up Reiji’s unfinished drink and brought it with him. It smelled like a mixture of caramel and paint thinner, and he had never understood Reiji’s affinity for it.

Haruka followed. On the way, she set her purse down on one of the barstools—it really was quite large, and as he glanced at her again while making his way to the sink, he thought again of what might be in it. 

_Was she expecting to stay the night—?_

He cut the thought off before it progressed. No. It was much better to wait for her to reveal her own motives. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t push her.

“Would you care for a drink?” She was silent for a moment. He turned to her, and when she nodded he retrieved a second glass from the cabinet next to him. He poured her a glass. “Fair warning, it’s strong.”

Her fingers brushed his as she took it. He watched her smell it, then take a tentative sip. She frowned a bit.

“Wow. This is different.”

“Let your palate acclimate to it. You’ll get used to it.”

She nodded, took another sip, then folded her arms over her chest, still holding the glass. Again, silence fell between them—there was only a small amount left in his glass, and he finished it off before setting it by the sink. 

He glanced at the bottle. There was about one glass left. Drinking it was almost certainly a bad idea, as three was enough to have him vividly imagining pushing Haruka against the wall and finishing it off on her tongue. He looked at the range in front of him for a long moment, then at her. It seemed for a moment like she’d done that thing where she left the room for a moment, until she raised the glass to her lips again, taking a longer drink. 

“You’re right. It does get better.” She set it on the counter and looked at him. “Are you angry with me?”

It was a test of her progress, he told himself. He leaned on his hands against the counter. “Did you want to leave with him?”

“What—?” There was a beat. She frowned. He met her eyes. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because I came here for you.” Her face puzzled. After a moment, she continued. “Because I need you for this.”

She’d answered without hesitating. His grip on the counter tightened a fraction as something hot shot through him. When he spoke again, his voice was less sure than he wanted it to be.

“Why do you need me.”

The question came out a statement. She tilted her head.

“Because you understand me,” she answered. Her voice was quiet.

He let go of the counter, closing most of the distance between them. Up close, her breath smelled faintly of wine—or perhaps it was his, it was hard to tell at this point. 

Again, he studied her. Over and over again, she’d caught him off guard. Very few people surprised him anymore.

The boatneck collar of her shirt revealed most of her collarbone. It dipped deeply, like it was meant to be a cavern explored by fingers or tongue. 

“What do you want to learn next?”

“I don’t know.”

His hand found her arm. Through her sleeve, she tensed as he drew her to him so that she was facing him. “Think harder. Go inside yourself and figure out what you want.”

She had prominent hipbones. The way he’d drawn her to him, he could feel them.

She looked at him. “I don’t know how to do that.” She paused, bit the inside of her lip, looked away before looking back. “Can you show me?”

His look hardened. 

“Is that what you want?”

She let out a breath, then nodded.

“I think so. That’s…as much as I know.”

“That’s a start.”

For a long moment, he regarded her. She was curled into herself, like the very act of searching required her to probe parts of herself she didn’t know existed. He was struck by how very young she was—six, maybe seven years younger than him. By the time he’d been her age he’d seen far more of the world than he’d needed to. Her innocence was not something that could be faked. 

“What can I do?”

It was a double-barreled question, and when she tensed against him, he knew she knew it. He was standing behind her, now. She looked back at the sensation of her back against his, then down at his hand on her forearm.

“Whatever you want,” she said. Something hot ran through him. She looked up at him, confused. “Wasn’t that the third rule?”

“The third rule,” he said through what was almost a laugh. His hand strayed from her arm, passing under it, his hand flat against her stomach. He pushed her slightly into him. “You should not give me that much power over you. I will take what you give me.”

“Am I giving you power if I’m trying to understand what I want?”

 _Touché,_ he thought. But he didn’t say so.

“Have you heard of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs?”

She shook her head. Her hair moved against his neck. “No.”

“Then we’ll start with that. Close your eyes.” She did. He raised his hands to her temples, turning her face forward. “Now let your thoughts drop away.”

She nodded. He lowered his hands, returning one to its place over her stomach. After a moment, then, she went completely still. Her breaths were even and measured. The only sound in the apartment was the faint hum of the refrigerator. 

In the silence of that moment, he lowered his head slightly, careful not to let his hair brush her skin, and breathed her in. Citrus, vanilla. Human. She was tense in his arms, a prey animal at the mercy of a predator.

“The hierarchy says that the first needs to be met are the physical,” he said. “When a man approaches you, what does your body tell you?” 

His voice was low in her ear, almost a whisper. It made her jump a little and he stilled her by tightening his grip a fraction. He waited for her response.

“It tells me—to hide,” she said. He circled his other arm around her waist, across her chest, touching the underside of her jaw. “To run.”

“You can’t run. What do you do now?”

She was so small that he could reach his hand back into her hair, and he did, for a moment. He felt her breath hitch.

“This is the part that I can’t get past,” she barely whispered.

“You’re afraid.”

“Yes.”

“Answer it.” She tried to turn around, but he held her fast. “Don’t run from it. Face it.”

“I’m scared.”

He ran his hand across her throat. “Then give in.”

There was a beat. Then, with a huge exhale, she went nearly slack in his arms, until she seemed to remember that they were standing and righted herself, with his help, one of her hands taking hold of the counter. He let his hand fall lower, brushing the collar of her shirt down further past her delicious collarbone, which he ran his fingers over. He pulled it back enough to feel the very top of the swell of her breast before letting it go.

“Good girl.”

He was still close to her neck. At his touch, her head rolled back against his shoulder, bearing her throat to him. Unable to resist, he ran his nose along the column, breathing her in. The hand on her stomach drifted lower, until his fingers brushed over her hip bone.

“Now what does your body tell you?”

He slid his fingers under the band of her skirt. She moved, fractionally, back into him. His fingers dipped under her panties as well. To his surprise, the skin was smooth. There was no hair. She bucked into his hand.

“Eiichi—” Her breath hitched. She gripped the edge of the counter, leaning a bit into that hand. Once again, he felt a flash of heat at the sound of his unadorned name on her lips. “—why are you touching me?”

 _What so many men would give to be in my place,_ he thought, his lips curving just barely upward against the skin of her neck, not quite a kiss. He lowered his hand, running a finger against her core. She bucked into him again. He spoke in her ear. “Like this?”

 _“Ah—”_ Her fingers curled into a fist. Her other hand flew to his wrist, and she squeezed as he brushed his fingers along her again. Her voice came out through gritted teeth. “—shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

His smile grew against her neck. “Are you offering to take me to bed?”

Her head whipped around. Her lips were barely an inch from his. 

“I don’t know how.”

“Do you want to learn?”

“Stop teasing me,” she whispered.

Something about the certainty of her words sent a thrill through him. She was waking up. Slowly, he withdrew his hand, tracing a finger up the edge of her groin. He brushed her lips with his thumb. 

“Eiichi,” she said around it.

“Ah, ah. The second rule.”

How incredibly easy it would be to kiss her. But it would end their lessons if he did.

“The third lesson, Haruka. Know yourself and what you want.”

 _How to keep her,_ he mused. _I’m not the only one._

He stepped away from her, sliding his hand along her back. He smiled a bit as she stepped into the contact—when she turned around, her back to the counter, he couldn’t resist reaching around her and taking the wineglass she’d left there, running the tip of his tongue along the lip. She watched him, her expression frozen. _Was that—_

“Rule four,” he said impulsively, stepping into her again, one of her legs between his. Her back bent slightly over the counter. “As long as this arrangement continues, don’t see anyone else.”

“See anyone—?”

He ran his fingers along her chin. “A man would expect to be your only one. I want your whole self.”

He stepped away. He took a drink. There was a faint taste of her still on the glass. He looked at her—she nodded.

“Okay.”

There was a beat. When it passed, she watched him watch her for a moment, then passed him by.

Then, she paused in front of her purse, pulling out a large folder. She set it on the counter, smiling at it rather than him.

“It’s funny, Kotobuki-senpai was right. I do have music for you. For HEAVENS.” He looked at her, expectant. She continued. “You didn’t ask for it, I know, but it came to me.”

 _Senpai_ —whatever. It didn’t matter now. He slid the folder over to himself, looking through it. During the time in which he read it over, she shouldered her bag, making her way halfway toward the door.

“Haruka.” She paused. His look hardened. “This song is for me. Not them. I won’t let them sing this.”

He knew, then, what he would do. 

He would continue their lessons, cultivate her emotions. He would train her until she trusted him implicitly. Until his place in her heart was larger than anyone else's. And then he would bring her to see it. He thought, as he had many times, of her hands on his bare skin, her mouth on his neck. He thought of her saying his name in rapture instead of fear.

Strangely, she smiled. “If that’s what you want. Goodnight, Eiichi-kun.”

× × × × ×

(five point five)

× × × × ×

_We need to chat. In person. I’ll be by._

The message had been sent hours ago. He’d woken late that morning. The previous night, after Haruka had left, he’d poured the last glass of the wine from that evening and lost himself for hours in the music she’d given him. Late into the night, he’d recorded layers of it in the synthesizer on his computer. He had yet to listen back to it, but the hangover he was still nursing the ghost of strongly suggested what this early draft would sound like when he did get back to it.

“What I do in my free time is none of your business.”

“What you do in _any_ of your time is none of my business, Captain. I’m your competition.” Reiji breezed past him. He made for the barstool he usually sat on, propping a foot up on the other one. “But we both know how _that_ goes.”

When Eiichi made no move toward the kitchen, Reiji sat back in his seat and took off his hat. With one arm on the counter, the other over the back of the stool, he looked for all the world like a king staring down his subject.

This was the _real_ Reiji. Eiichi could count the number of people in this world who knew this version of him on one hand, and three of the others were Reiji’s bandmates. He felt himself smirk, playing into it.

“Tell me, what have I done _this_ time?”

Reiji didn’t answer right away. Instead, he held his chin, looking at Eiichi as though he were trying to find the edge of a difficult strip of wallpaper so he could begin pulling it off. 

“I don’t know, and that’s the issue. That’s why I’m here.”

“Please elaborate.”

Reiji cocked his head. “That’s what I would like you to do, actually. Before I let it slip to a certain set of highly protective juniors that you have their beloved composer making _midnight deliveries_ to your _home,_ I suggest you explain yourself.”

His eyes narrowed. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. “You can tell STARISH whatever you like. It’s not mine to tell.”

“Is it, now.” After a beat, he raised a brow. “I assume you’re aware of Shining’s rules?”

“I’m aware of the pretenses he sells to first-years so they will take his program seriously.”

“Mmh. Yes, that’s a start.” 

There was another long moment in which Reiji regarded him. During that moment, for the first time in a long time, the stare of someone other than his father made him unsettled. 

“And you know what will happen to her if you get caught?”

He called Reiji’s bluff. 

“Nothing. She isn’t one of his trainees.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong.”

Reiji got off the stool and made his way into the kitchen, retrieving the whiskey he kept there along with two glasses. He wet his fingers under the faucet and poured about a finger in each, along with a splash of water, then slid one to him over the counter.

“You know I don’t drink your shoe polish.”

“Humor me.”

Eyeing it, Eiichi picked up the glass. Reiji had already had a sip of his, eyes closed, and he could see he’d held it on the edge of his tongue for a few seconds before swallowing.

Eiichi took a small sip, grimaced, and set the drink on the counter. He didn’t cough, but he did turn into his hand. The strong spirit burned his throat on the way down. Reiji was leaning against the kitchen island, his drink still raised. He took another sip.

“She’s too good for you,” Reiji said after a moment.

Eiichi wiped a trace of whiskey that was on his lip on the back of his hand. “I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.” 

“It is, because she is dear to me.” He drank again. “To many people. Your insight is mostly correct: she is not under Shining’s tutelage anymore, and she will not face any professional consequences if whatever is going on between you two gets out.”

“Then _what_?”

Reiji’s look hardened. “You may not care what STARISH thinks, but I trust my suspicion that you may care very much what _she_ thinks of how STARISH takes this news.”

Eiichi let out a slow breath. 

“I’m doing nothing more than what she asked me to do.”

For a third time, Reiji studied him. He could practically see the wheels in his friend’s brain turning. He took a couple of slow sips before he spoke again.

“Interesting.”

“What?”

Reiji set his glass down. It was nearly empty. “You’re not immune. Of anyone, I thought you would be.”

“I don’t follow.”

He heard his own words to Haruka echoed in his head. _Yes, you do. That’s the point._

Reiji smirked, picked up his drink again, and drained it. He set the glass by the sink, then made his way back around the counter to where he’d left his hat. 

“You’re right, Captain. It’s none of my business. _Now,_ if word were to get around that you’ve cut in line, then—” he looked at Eiichi, paused. “Well. Don’t hurt her, and we won’t have a problem.”


	4. Kairosclerosis

**Kairosclerosis**

_n._ the moment you realize that you’re currently happy—consciously trying to savor the feeling—which prompts your intellect to identify it, pick it apart and put it in context, where it will slowly dissolve until it’s little more than an aftertaste.

[ the dictionary of obscure sorrows ]

× × × × ×

(six)

× × × × ×

Eiichi tapped his fingers on the counter next to his phone. He had been doing this for several minutes. The screen, still illuminated, showed a message:

_Eiichi,_

_I need to ask for something. I know you’re not expecting me until Sunday, but there is something I need to talk with you about that can’t wait that long. If you will be home this evening, would you mind if I came by?_

_Haruka_

_She didn’t apologize,_ he thought. More importantly, however, she hadn’t specified a time. He’d opened a Rioja not long after he’d arrived that he’d left to breathe in the glass beside him while he thought out his response. It was tempting, almost, to deny her, make her wait. But that was hardly fair. This was what he’d wanted her to do all along. To staunch her initiative was needless, and may even make her retreat further.

No. It was more the implications of the message that bothered him. When his screen went dark, he lit it again, reading over the text for the fourth or fifth time. As it was, there were two possibilities he could see: one, the more likely, that it dealt with the music she’d given him when she was last here. That had been over a week ago. The other, somewhat less likely, was that it pertained to their arrangement. But that was where the predictions stopped—if she wanted to talk with him about their arrangement, then it could have been anything. And he was lying to himself if he didn’t badly want to know.

_Anytime after seven._

He looked up from his phone, then added:

_If you come close to then, I’ll fix dinner for you._

Her response was quick, more so than he was expecting, but was exactly what he’d expected.

_You don’t have to do that. This won’t take very long._

Sometimes, she _was_ predictable.

_I will be preparing it either way. You may as well join me._

When there were no further responses, he took it to mean that she’d be there around seven. That left him a little over an hour to fix everything—which was about how long it would have taken anyway, he reminded himself. The meat had been marinating since that morning, before he left for work, and he pulled it out, setting it in a pan, and dressed it, leaving it to acclimate before cooking. In the meantime, he prepared the sides. By the time it came to roast, the house was fragrant with herbs and sauces. 

About halfway through, he heard a knock.

“You’re early,” he said when he opened the door.

“I’m sorry,” Haruka answered.

He touched the small of her back as she entered. “Don’t apologize.”

She looked up at him. “I’m—” she cut herself off, smiling a bit. “—hopeless.”

“I wouldn’t have bothered if that were true,” he shot back, making his way over to the stove again and shutting off the burners, placing lids on each of the pans. She followed him, her arms wrapped around herself.

“You went to all this trouble?”

There was an underside to that question. Possibly more than one. “I do this from time to time. Call it a hobby. You happened to catch me.” Without asking, then, he poured a glass of wine for her, then took a drink from his. He turned to face her. “What was this urgent business of yours?”

The purse on the counter was small. It almost surely didn’t have to do with music, then, or she’d have something with her. So this was about their arrangement. She hadn’t taken a drink yet, and when he did so, setting the glass behind him, she seemed to remember she was holding it and did the same. When her hands were free, she held her arms around herself again. She wasn’t looking at him.

He waited.

“I don’t know how to say this.”

“Say what?”

She looked at him. “I think I’ve learned what I needed to learn.”

Something dropped out from under him. 

“You came all the way here just to tell me that.”

“I didn’t want to say so over a text message.”

He came in front of her. 

“You’ve had enough of me.”

Her eyes were bright. Tears were threatening.

“You’re trying to hurt me,” she said.

“I’m asking if our lessons are done.”

Her tears spilled over. “Yes.”

He kissed her. 

One of his hands caught her around her back before she could move. The other slipped into her hair, tipping her face up, locking her lips to his. He pushed her into the wall. The force made her bite down just slightly on his lip.

She raised a hand to his chest. Expecting her to push him back, he broke away, only to find her eyes had closed, her fingers curled slightly into her hand. 

“Eiichi,” she said, very quietly.

With the hand in her hair, he tipped her head to one side, exposing her neck. He felt her look up at the door, felt her breath hitch at the slight scrape of his glasses against her cheek. His voice was low in her ear. She went to break free, only for him to tighten his grip on her so that she felt his strength, not just his touch. 

“Come to bed with me.”

“But the second rule—”

“—No longer applies, because this isn’t a lesson.”

“Eiichi—”

“I’m asking, not telling.” He touched her face, tracing her hairline. “If you’re going to leave, let me find out if I’ve done what you asked.”

“W-what about the food—?”

He laughed, coldly, letting her go. He walked around the range and shut the oven off. “ _God_ , you are hopeless.”

“I told you,” she said softly. When he looked back at her, her smile was sad.

“No.” He strode quickly back to her, catching her shoulders in his hands before she could move away. “You asked me when we began to teach you how to be desirable to men. I’m telling you that there is no universe in which you needed me to help you do that, and that’s never what I was teaching you.”

“Then what were you teaching me?”

“To see yourself the way they do. The way _I_ do.”

He kissed her again. This time, when he held her head, she hesitated only a moment before she tilted her face up, receiving his kiss—he deepened it, pushing her up and into him, trying to overpower the tentativeness he felt in her response. His mouth was greedy on hers. She tasted just barely of wine.

“Come to bed with me,” he said against her lips.

“Eiichi—”

He let out a breath against her neck.

“Please.”

“I—”

“Take what you want.” His lips brushed the shell of her ear. “If it’s me—if it’s _this_ —you can have it.”

She went very still. 

“Eiichi, I—” She cut herself off. “I’m scared.”

“Of what? Of wanting?”

He felt her face grow hot. “Of wanting…this.”

He let out a breath.

“You’ve never been with anyone—else.”

She shook her head.

A wave of tenderness hit him, then. He found himself holding the back of her head as though she were something breakable.

“I will take care of you.” He pulled back, held her gaze for a moment. “You’re safe. Will you trust me?”

She took a breath. Then another. After too many seconds, her fingers curled in his shirt and she placed a featherlight kiss on the base of his throat.

He kissed her hairline. Slowly, he threaded a hand through her hair and tipped her face up to kiss her lips.

Her hand flattened against his chest. But she didn’t push him away. Instead, she softly, shyly returned the kiss—what’s more, after a few breaths, he felt the light press of her fingers on his hip through the fabric of his jeans.

He held her close for a moment longer before he took her up in his arms, bridal style. Her arm found its way around his neck. He carried her back to his room.

His bed was king-sized, four-postered, canopied, anchored by wooden, Doric columns that were bolted to the floor and ceiling. It was a work of art. He set her on it. Her toes curled. His hand, still under her thigh, flexed against her smooth skin.

The last question hung silent in the air around them. When she paused, he knew she felt it. He would go no further unless she said so.

“If you’re going to say no, do so now.”

A long moment passed. She closed her eyes, took a shuddering breath. Her fingers curled in the blanket. 

And then she nodded. She leaned forward, her cheek brushing his. He kissed her one more time, lingering against her mouth, before he hooked a finger under her stocking and began to pull it down. When she tensed, he ran his hand over the newly-bared skin, looking at her until she met his eyes.

“Let yourself want.”

“Eiichi…”

“I love it when you say my name.”

He knelt on the floor beneath her, running his hands along her body as he went, opening her leg wider and pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh. He lingered there, his breath soft against her, feeling her toes curl again as he undressed her leg. He held her leg close, close enough to feel her skin against his cheek all the way down to her shin.

He ran his hand down her foot. It was smaller than his hand. He hooked it up over his leg, using his body to hold her legs open as he repeated the motion on the other side. Her leg flexed against him, drawing him closer. 

“Ah, ah. Not yet,” he said against her skin. This side he undressed faster, running both hands down her leg. When he had her where he wanted her, he removed his glasses and set them on the table beside the bed.

“—When?”

Softly. But it was there. She was looking at the ceiling as though it could stop her. He kissed the inside of her leg, smiling against it.

“Hm. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

He removed her skirt and panties in one fluid motion, tossing them behind him. When she lifted her legs, he guided them back down so he was between them. She was leaning back on her hands—he took her by the hips and pulled her closer to him. 

Her core was level with his chest. Even through his shirt, he felt heat emanate from her. He pushed her shirt back and kissed the plane of her stomach, exhaling over her skin again before kissing the joint of her leg. On a whim, he ran his tongue across the impossibly hairless skin, smiling a bit when she bucked into his mouth. He didn’t take her for the kind of girl who waxed. Yet another thing about her that took him by surprise.

When he took one of her folds in his mouth, she gasped loudly. When he ran his tongue across, inside, she let out a little moan, and he felt her collapse partially against the bed before righting herself, locking her arms.

“Eiichi,” she breathed out. “Do that again.”

He smiled. He pushed up under her thighs, lifting them up, pushed his tongue deeper, then around in a circle. He stroked flat against the sensitive nerves of her clit. Her head rolled back. This time, the sound she made was louder.

She was very wet. He closed his lips around her clit and pulled, repeating with his tongue. Only when she began to quiver around him did he stop. 

“Good?” He glanced up at her.

_“Yes.”_

_Good._ He was in no hurry. He’d make this last.

He hitched her leg over his shoulder, baring her even more. With one hand, he held her leg in place, his other arm anchoring the leg not over his shoulder as he dipped back down. Again, he closed over her clit and pulled.

“Ah—”

His lips twitched up, an inadvertent smile. He was in _no_ hurry. But after several minutes, her hips canted up and he felt her quiver, then stop. He pulled back enough to speak.

“ _Come_ , sweetheart. Don’t hold back.”

She tried to nod. He ran his tongue along her entrance again, dipping it back inside. His lips closed over her clit again.

That was it. She fell apart against him, the leg over his shoulder clenching, grabbing handfuls of the blanket beneath her.

He wiped himself off as her orgasm faded. She was breathing hard. It hadn’t faded all the way. He gave her a moment, then replaced his tongue with his hand, laying his palm flat against her and pushing up before he drove two fingers in, then around in a semicircle down the side of her clit, pinching the nerves between his knuckles.

She gasped out. He repeated the motion, watching her. He added a third finger, feeling along the edge of her wall until he found the hard spot that made her buck once, wildly, into his hand before she could stop herself. With his thumb, he rubbed small circles against her clit.

He read her. There were some moments when it was too much and he felt her still beneath him, her teeth clenching, and he withdrew enough to let it pass. Then he started up again, slowly. Before long, one hand came around his, pushing up just slightly. He wasn’t even sure if she knew she was doing it. But all the better. 

She came again. Hard. She clenched around his hand, and he withdrew it as she rode it out, feeling her shiver from the inside before wiping his hand clean on the hem of his shirt. With his other, he pulled it off, tossing it in the growing pile on the floor.

He let her ride it out for a few minutes this time, holding her, running a hand up and down her body. With her top half and his bottom half still clothed, there wasn’t enough contact, but there was some. He pulled her closer to him until her feet were touching the floor, and stood up, leaning over her, her bare legs scraping against his jeans. He ran his tongue along her neck. She shuddered. When he slid a hand under her shirt, lifting it over her shoulders, she raised her hands and rolled her shoulders back. He threw that behind him as well. Her breasts rose and fell, still behind her bra—he unhooked it and tossed it away.

One hand came around her back, pressing in, tilting her chest slightly up. He watched her. Her nipples were already erect with her arousal—he took one between his fingers, pressing down, replacing his hand with his forearm so he could lift her bare chest against his. He nipped and kissed at her neck, her earlobe, tilting her head occasionally to give himself better access. He rolled his hand against her breast, running under it with the pad of his thumb.

She gasped. He ran his tongue across the underside of her jaw. When that wasn’t it, he ran his thumb under her breast again, and her breath hitched. He smiled against her. For a moment, he left her, sliding his hand under her thighs and lifting up, placing her far enough back on the bed that he could climb over her. She moved back against the pillows. He followed her, crawling slowly over her, drawing her legs down around him again. He slid his arm underneath her back, lifting her up. 

His tongue found the sensitive underside of her breast again. Her arm braced against the headboard. 

_“Eiichi,”_ she gasped out. He tightened his hold on her, drawing her leg against his side. He looped his arm through, his teeth scraping against the side of her breast. He ran his tongue across her nipple before withdrawing his hand again. It came to rest between her legs. She writhed against the tips of his fingers.

“There it is,” he said. He slid three fingers in, careful not to stretch her out more than she already was, and ran his fingers over her clit in quick succession. She closed down around him. One of her hands flew to his wrist, pushing his hand deeper. It wasn’t long at all before she came again around his hand. He raised it to his lips, and she watched him draw a line across his lower lip before wiping his hand on his jeans.

He kissed her, his lower lip between hers—she ran her tongue along it, tasting herself on him, before he kissed her again, deeper, the hand behind her back coming to rest against the base of her neck. Her hair was damp on his fingers.

When he pulled away, sitting up, she arced up, trying to prolong the contact. He watched her as he undid his jeans, sliding them off along with his boxers.

“This is what I want,” he said. He crawled over her again enough to lift her up onto his lap, straddling his knees. She curled her legs so she was kneeling. She looked at him, expectant.

“But what is it you want?”

His voice was a coarse whisper. She lowered her eyes. Her fingers were running down his shoulder, over his collarbone, across the planes of his chest and abs. Her touch was a whisper against his skin. He covered her hand with his own so that her palm went flat against him. She looked down at their joined hands, her hair swinging in front of her face. He threaded his fingers partially through hers and gripped them tightly. 

“The third lesson, Haruka. Remember.” With his other hand, he tipped her face up so she met his eyes. “I will go no further until you take it.”

There was a beat. Then, slowly, she raised up until she was over him—he freed her hand, and she placed it on his shoulder, the other tipping his head back. She gripped his hair as his head brushed against the folds of her core. She repeated the motion. He drew in a sharp breath against her collarbone. Her eyes closed.

“That’s it,” he said.

She stroked herself against him. Her hips rocked just barely back and forth with the motion—her breasts were at the level of his mouth, and when she moved closer, taking part of him inside her, he placed a hand between her shoulderblades that she leaned against, gritting his teeth at the dizzying rush that came close to tipping him over the edge. His lips brushed her sternum. He squeezed hard at the base of his cock for a few seconds. There was no need to rush this. He could feel the heat of his own breath reflected back at him, the warmth of her skin against his lips.

“Do you want more?”

“Yes,” she breathed out.

“Good,” he answered, his tone dark. “I’m not done with you yet.”

He paused, reaching over her to get a condom from his nightstand. When he’d wrapped himself, he repositioned her.

He pushed down on her shoulders, drawing a high-pitched sound from her as he drove into her. She fell to her knees against him, holding his shoulders—her hands were shaking, her breathing labored as she stretched to accommodate him. He held her against him as he laid her back against the pillows, hooking her legs over his hips. She crossed her ankles. 

He drove into her again. Her back arced up. Again and again, he buried himself in her, allowing himself to let go enough to feel the dizziness of swimming in her, until the moment became incomprehensible. 

He sat up, and she opened her eyes as he moved in between her legs, bending them and pulling her against him.

“Turn over and put your hands against the headboard.”

“What—”

Without completely leaving her, he helped her turn over. She braced herself as he’d said.

He held her hips and rocked into her in an arc, and she cried out, the force knocking her forward. She locked her arms to keep from slamming into the headboard. 

_“Eiichi.”_

“Like that?”

_“Yes.”_

As he had before, he repeated the motion. Then again, each time faster—when she cried out again, he angled a hand against the apex of her leg, his thumb rubbing circles against her clitoris, until he felt her release, and her hold against the headboard slackened.

He drew her against him, angling over her body. He was very close. Her ass was delicious against his groin. When she reached her hands behind her back around his legs, pulling him deeper, he locked his arm around her as flashes of white exploded behind his eyes and he buried his head against the crook of her neck.

He breathed her in—her citrus-and-vanilla, human, and now a strong undercurrent of sex from both of them. He could have stayed there for a long time—and did, longer than he should have. Her fingers splayed over his shoulders, small and warm. He’d propped himself up on one arm so as not to crush her.

“Do you know what people call you?” 

She looked at him, shaking her head. 

“The heartbreaker of Shining Agency.”

_“What?”_

He sat up on his arm. “If you knew how many people were in love with you, you would never have come to me.”

She touched a hand to her lips.

“I never knew…”

“—How many people would do anything to do this with you?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even shake her head. Her fingers curled against her lips, her eyes beginning to shine. 

He felt something rise up in him, a creature with many heads. He couldn’t deny that he was attracted to her and didn’t try. But there was more. Possessiveness. Frustration, that he was one of many. Anger—at her, for her ignorance, for what she’d done to him—and himself, for failing to heed his own counsel.

_Never allow yourself to be this vulnerable._

Her tears had escaped. She was looking away from him, now. He was still positioned over her, and she turned to face him again when he wiped her tears away with the pad of his thumb. His touch was gentle. 

“You aren’t over whoever did this to you.” 

She shook her head. He lowered down so he was poised over her lips. 

“Then whoever did this to you is a fool.”

He tipped her chin up and kissed her, once, long and slow. She met him. Her eyes drifted closed, which he saw when he pulled away and she opened them again.

“When it comes time to choose, choose with your heart,” he said, then touched his fingers to her temple. “But also your head. Never settle for anyone who isn’t worthy of you.”

He felt a tear against his finger. She nodded. He wanted to kiss her again, but didn’t.

“Final lesson,” he said. He touched her lips. “A man in his right mind will not be satisfied with a part of your heart. Be prepared to give everything.”

She nodded.

He let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _EN: ALL THE ANGST._
> 
> _(I’m not sorry.)_
> 
> _I actually had the idea for this story before the idea for Blue Monday came to me, as I was writing chapter six—but as pieces of the metanarrative became clear to me, I knew this would be chronologically_ after _Blue Monday. Specifically, about six months after, or about a year after the canonical end of S4._
> 
> _As I mentioned previously, this is complete, and I won’t be adding to it due to the canon of the Synesthesia-verse precluding there being more to this. But if you enjoyed this and haven’t checked out others in the series (Synesthesia; Blue Monday; City of Stars in a couple of weeks, and eventually a sequel and some companion ficlets), I hope you’ll do so. Reading all of them enhances the experiences of the others, I think._
> 
> _I love comments. Seriously, I live for them. Please tell me what you think_


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